


At Odds

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac have always supported each other through every trial, always comforted and wept with each other.  They've always been there for each other.</p><p>Until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Odds

Courfeyrac awoke in the middle of the night as he always did, with his face wet with tears and his screams still ringing in his ears. For a moment he lay there frozen, knowing that it was just a nightmare but still caught up in the terror of it, listening to his sobbing breaths in the dark room. When he could move, he slowly pushed himself up, pulling his knees up to his chest and resting his head on them. But in the darkness, he could still see the scene he'd just wrenched himself from, playing itself over and over again before his eyes. _The silhouetted figure jerking as a dozen bullets struck it._ His stomach clenched and his chest grew tight-- _a body toppling limply from the barricade--_ he felt as though the sobs of grief and fear that still shook his body might tear him apart if he were left to himself.He untangled himself from the bedclothes and went to look for Combeferre.

He was, as Courfeyrac had expected, sitting in front of the fireplace, though all but the last few embers of the fire were cold and dead. Courfeyrac often found him there, even on the rare nights when he fell asleep before Courfeyrac; despite being told repeatedly that he could wake Courfeyrac when he awoke from a nightmare, he never did, or at least never on purpose. But tonight he hadn't even gone to bed yet, it seemed, for he was still dressed in his shirt and trousers. He lifted his head slowly as Courfeyrac stumbled out of the bedroom, and his own face had the look of someone who had been crying not long ago. It was a look that was all too familiar to them all, these days.

Wearily, Combeferre beckoned, and Courfeyrac stumbled over to collapse at his feet and sob into his knees. Combeferre ran a hand through Courfeyrac's curls as he cried, and the gentle touch was just enough to keep Courfeyrac's soul tethered to the present instead of being swept out to sea by his grief.

Courfeyrac wept tempestuously, as if the violence of its expression could burn away his sorrow. In the past, it had always worked, but now it only dulled the edge of the pain enough for him to speak again.

"I can't stop dreaming about it," he muttered in a very wet, choked voice. "Every night, Ferre. Why can't I stop dreaming it?" Combeferre's lips pressed together, and he didn't say anything.

Courfeyrac went on; he couldn't help it, with his head so full of terrible, bloody images that he felt he would die if he couldn't get them out. "Every night, I see the barricade, I see the flag fall and even then, I _know_. And I see him pick up the flag and I can't get to him and I'm screaming at him because I know what's going to happen but he can't hear me, and I can't stop it. And I watch him climb up the barricade, and--"

"No." The word was harsh, as if wrenched from Combeferre's lips. "Don't."

"I'm sorry," Courfeyrac ducked his head and scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt. "I just--I don't know what to do. I feel like my soul has been torn in two, like I'm bleeding out on the inside, and I can't--I don't--" He faltered, gulping back another sob. "His absence touches everything. We were so often together that now all the places I love are full of him. Every day I turn to speak to him, I think of a pun that would make him laugh, I think I see him out of the corner of my eye. Yesterday I was going into the hat shop, and I just happened to see, on the window sill, there is a little pot of flowers--red geraniums. And it brought to mind the little flower Jehan gave him to cultivate, the yellow--"

 _"Courfeyrac!"_ Combeferre's hands were clenched into fists and trembling; his eyes swam with tears. "Please," he whispered. "I can't."

Courfeyrac felt his lip quivering as he looked up at his friend's strained face. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. "I just miss him so much."

"Do you think I don't?" Combeferre whispered fiercely, still struggling against the tears that threatened to spill over onto his cheeks.

Courfeyrac drew back at the rancor in his voice. " _No!"_ he said quickly. "No, of _course_ not--Ferre, I _know_ you loved him just as much as I. I--I just mean that . . . it hurts, and I--I need to talk about it."

He dropped his eyes to his hands, clasped in his lap, and his voice grew quiet. "I don't know what else to do. Please. I'm sorry, just--" He felt stupid and sick and selfish for forcing his own grieving on Combeferre, when he could see it just caused him more pain. But his own heart hurt so much, he couldn't bite back the words.

Combeferre stood up abruptly. "I need to leave."

"No, wait, I--" Courfeyrac grabbed his hand.

"Look, I know you need to talk--about what happened, about the nightmares . . . about him. That's the way you're made; you talk. I understand. But . . ." Combeferre shut his eyes. "But I can't hear it."

He gently pulled his hand out of Courfeyrac's and put on his coat, buttoning it carefully, mechanically. "Go to Marius," he told him. "Go to Joly, go to somebody--anybody but me. I wish I could listen, but I just can't. Not now." He paused, his hand on the door latch, and sighed. The sound was so tired and so full of pain that Courfeyrac longed to jump up and embrace him. But the fear that Combeferre didn't want him to--or worse, that he could do it and it wouldn't help anything--kept him frozen in his place.

"I'm going to Feuilly's," Combeferre said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Please don't go," Courfeyrac whispered. But the door had already closed behind Combeferre, and he hadn't heard--or hadn't answered.

 


End file.
